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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Semi
Imagining
Speculation
Mysterious
Suppose
Another
Mind
Would
Speculations
More quotes by John Keats
I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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